Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (12 page)

68 Days Old

I finally did it. Today I timed my breastfeeding and relinquished one bottle of liquid gold so that I could get my hair colored. The permanent marker is long gone, and I don't need the grays on top of my sleep-deprived craggy face to add on the years. I wouldn't want anyone thinking I'm Sam's grandma.

My colorist, Carina, along with several others at the salon, loves to share Mexican home remedies with me. While I was pregnant, they determined the gender of my baby based on the shape of my stomach and face. They also had me tie a strand of my hair around my wedding band and dangled it above my belly, and the direction of the swaying confirmed I was having a boy. Accurate, no? Now they're offering up this nugget: “Rub an egg on him,” Carina says, squeezing a bottle of creamy brown into my roots.

“An egg?” I question.

“That's what my mom always told me,” she says.

Another colorist chimes in, “It takes away any evil spirits that may be possessing him. It will stop him from crying.”

“Evil spirits?” Are they insinuating Sam is possessed? I'd thought it once or twice myself, but nobody else has ever seriously mentioned it.

“You rub an egg over his body while you pray for calm, and all of the bad energy will transfer into the egg.”

“What kind of egg?” I ask, wondering if I should take notes.

“A regular egg. Uncooked. And you roll it down his head, onto his arms, all around his body. You have to pray the whole time.”

“I'm Jewish. Does that matter?” I want to make sure I do everything by the Mexican book.

“I don't think so.” Carina shrugs. “It works. I used to do it with my daughter, and she started sleeping perfectly.”

I have my doubts, but I listen intently. The other colorist interjects, “I know a girl who rubbed the egg over her baby, and it fell on the floor and cracked. Inside the yolk was completely scrambled. It took the bad energy and made the egg rotten.”

“Did the energy escape when she dropped the egg? Was anyone else in the room possessed?” I ask. The colorists look at me like I'm an idiot.

“No,” is all they say.

“Try it tonight,” coaxes Carina. “Afterward, crack it into a cup of lukewarm water, and watch the bubbles rise.”

“And don't forget to drink a beer every morning at breakfast. It makes your milk fill up. I hate beer, but I had one first thing every day with my son. I wanted to throw up, but I did it.”

“Beer and eggs.” I nod my head. “Got it.”

Looks like I need to go to the grocery store.

My favorite part of having my hair colored, aside from taking five to seven years off my age, is getting my hair washed afterward. This particular salon employs reclining chairs at the sinks, so instead of ganking my head back and killing my neck, I get to splay my entire body out, feet up and relaxed. I have a favorite hair washer, Ava, and I wait in line for her magic hands. She is brilliant. I dream of being a wealthy woman and hiring Ava to wash my hair every morning. I think I'd be a different person if someone massaged and pampered my scalp every day for a half hour.

That's right:
a half hour
.

Ava scrunches and kneads and scratches my hair for a glorious, bubble-filled half hour. I've never had a full-body massage that's felt as good as Ava's hair washes.

As I lie in her chair, I attempt to clear my mind of everything—eggs, sleeping, laundry—and just concentrate on how good her hands feel. I use a method from my Rodney Yee yoga videotapes, where I relax each body part from head to toe. I even hear Rodney's soothing voice in my head telling me what to do, and I am in sheer heaven for all of thirty seconds, just down to my ears, when from inside the purse on my lap, my cell phone buzzes. I try to ignore the jumpy grind, and eventually it subsides (I make a mental note to figure out how to shorten the number of rings before the phone goes to voice mail). I begin again: Relax my forehead, relax my eyes—

The phone buzzes again. This time I wonder if something might be wrong but hope it is just two different people calling me. I don't manage to get through even two body parts when the phone buzzes a third time. I open my eyes and dig through my purse. Ava stops washing and waits patiently, while I excuse my tacky behavior. I hate being one of those women not abiding by the “no cell phone” policy pasted all over the salon walls. A picture of Doogan, the caller ID for our home number, flashes on my screen.

“Hello,” I growl into the phone.

“Hi.” It's Zach. “I was wondering when you were going to be home. Sam didn't nap long, and now he's fussy. I'm wondering if I should give him another bottle.”

You interrupt my hair wash heaven to tell me a) Sam didn't nap well, which means he'll be a butthead later; and b) you want me to spare another bottle of my precious freedom juice? “He'll be fine. I'll be home in fifteen minutes. Just bounce him or something.” I hope Zach can hear the venom in my voice, but it's probably hard for him to hear anything with the screaming baby he's holding up to the phone.

“What?” he yells.

Now I have two boys shouting at me during what could very well be the most relaxing moment of the next three months. “Just wait for me!” I scream. Now I'm getting glares from the other patrons, glares I know well from doling them out myself in the past. “I'll be home soon.” I speak loudly and clearly.

After I hang up, I apologize to Ava. “I have to go,” I pout.

“I'll just finish your rinse,” she says, and I forgo the blissful head massage I so desperately crave. I tip her amply, as I always do, and leave the salon after a measly two-minute shampoo.

I'm officially entering this on my list of “You are never going to live this down” items. I just have to figure out whose list to add it to: Sam's or Zach's.

FACEBOOK STATUS

It takes a village … to get my hair colored.

Later

In the dead of night, I stumble down the stairs to the kitchen as Sam wails in his crib. The light from the refrigerator blinds me, but I know exactly where to feel for what I seek: the incredible, edible egg, which also apparently doubles as a mini-exorcist. My eyes adjust to the light, and I select the largest egg out of the carton in order to maximize demonic containment.

Back upstairs, Sam's lungs in full swing, I sidle up to his crib, armed with a symbol of life, where this whole mess began in the first place. Perhaps that irony will not be lost, and this egg will be the magical talisman that will finally allow me to sleep.

“Ssshh. Sssshh,” I say as I approach him with the egg gripped between my thumb and pointer finger. The egg touches Sam's hair, and he is instantly quiet. He watches me skeptically as I roll the egg from the top of his head, along his sides, and down to his feet. As I do, I pray. “Um … Dear God, it's me, Annie. Please stop this baby from crying all night and keeping me awake and just being a miserable human being in general. I know that's bitchy and isn't worthy of a prayer, and I should not interrupt you while you are doing other important and godly things, but please have Sam do something that makes me like him more or please change me into a better mother. And please let my sister, Nora, get pregnant and stay pregnant and have a healthy baby.”

Sam's interest in the egg has waned, and he breaks into baby howls again. “See, God? Isn't he loud? Can you maybe turn down his volume, or make me not loathe the sound of his voice so much? I'd really appreciate it. I'll make sure he doesn't use your name in vain. Does that really bother you, though? I've always wondered. Not that you can answer me, because I wouldn't be able to hear you over this baby crying!” I'm shouting now and about ready to smash the egg against the wall when Zach walks in.

“Why are you letting him cry? I thought we were doing that attachment-parenting thing.” He yawns.

“Your royal ‘we' is a royal pain in my ass,” I grumble.

“Is that an egg?” Zach notices it in the glow of the night-light.

“Yes?” I confess.

“Were you going to crack an egg over Sam's head?” Zach asks, alarmed.

“I'm not that crazy. I was rubbing the egg over his body and praying so as to rid him of evil energy so he'd stop crying.”

“Oh. Well, as long as you aren't
that
crazy,” he quips.

“Go back to bed. I'll get him out.” I'm defeated and rest the egg in Sam's crib.

Twenty minutes later, Sam is back in bed and I'm on the brink of falling into a light and unsatisfying slumber when I'm jolted awake by a crunch, followed by the familiar unpleasantness of my son's dissatisfaction with life.

“Shit!” I exclaim. “I left the egg in his crib.”

When I return to the scene of the scramble, the egg is dripping from Sam's hair and smeared into his sheets. I'll be discovering bits of shell until he moves into his big-boy bed. I guess I'll never know if I managed to trap the devil inside the egg. I'm guessing not, because neither Sam nor I fall back asleep.

Life would be so much easier if I were the possessed one.

69 Days Old

I haven't watched this much TV since I had free cable in college. I've already re-binge-watched
Battlestar Galactica,
and I'm halfway through re-binge-watching
Buffy
. In between episodes, usually while I'm making food, I watch daytime TV. Zach and I vowed we wouldn't let Sam watch TV until he's two, as research suggests it's not good for developing brains, and he's not technically watching. But in my grand tradition of beating myself up for being a horrible mother, I have to wonder if some of the noise from the TV—future weaponry from
Battlestar
or chilling screams from
Buffy
or canned laughter from sitcoms—is going to cause irreversible damage to Sam's brain. Am I causing ADHD as we speak?

Maybe I should start watching with the closed-captioning on instead.

Later

I now have a wicked headache from playing Bach on the stereo (to regenerate Sam's brain cells) while reading the closed-captioning on the TV. Perhaps I'll invest in some wireless headphones. Or a book.

71 Days Old

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do to entertain a two-month-old. I read him little books and sing him songs. (For the life of me, I still can't come up with any good kid songs, so I've started singing Sam “One” by Metallica. At least it starts off slow, and he doesn't need to know it's about a war veteran who lost all of his limbs and wants someone to relieve his misery by taking him off life support. Doogan always slinks off after the chords change and I start headbanging.) At this point, the one thing Sam truly enjoys, besides sucking the life out of me one boob at a time, is going in the Moby Wrap while I walk around the neighborhood. But how will I binge-watch TV if I have to leave the house?

Later

Compromise: I downloaded a bunch of fan-geek podcasts that I can listen to while I walk. Nerdery be thy savior.

73 Days Old

Zach and I are watching TV during the postbedtime, pre–second bedtime Sam sleep. We're loving
Orange Is the New Black,
but I'm hoping the girl-on-girl action isn't putting any sex ideas into Zach's head. I'm still not at 100 percent, or at least it doesn't feel that way during my attempts at morning treadmill runs. During one scene where Nicky goes down on a new inmate with bulbous breasts, I interrupt with, “I was watching QVC last night, and I'm considering buying a new bed. Or at least a mattress topper.”

“From the TV? How do we know it's going to be comfortable?” he asks.

“There were a lot of testimonials.”

“We don't know what kind of mad bed users these people are. They probably pay them to call in anyway.”

“Don't you dare challenge the validity of the QVC testimonial line! Anyway, we can send it back if we're not one-hundred-percent satisfied.”

“How do you send back a bed? We'd have to pack the thing up and bring it to a post office and pay a shitload on shipping. Please don't order it. I let it slide when you bought the olive tree, but we do not need a home shopping bed.”

“Okay,” I agree as the sex scene stealthily passes us by.

We watch for another few minutes, when Zach sneak attacks me with some neck kisses. “What are you doing?” I ask, trying to wriggle away.

“I'm kissing my wife. Sam's asleep. Now would be a good time for…” His eyebrows dance the language of nookie.

“For eyebrow dancing? No thanks. I'm good.”

“Don't you want to, Annie?” He gives me the same look he uses to convince me to bake him cookies.

“I don't know. I still don't feel ready,” I admit.

“What if we don't do everything? Just a little,” he suggests.

I shrug. “I guess. But you can't touch my boobs because they're too sore.”

“Okay. Can I look at them, at least?” he asks.

“I suppose. But don't freak out by how big and floppy they've gotten,” I warn.

“I've seen them when you're nursing, and they are not big and floppy. Well, maybe a little,” Zach zings. I elbow him.

“And you can't go down there, either.” I point to my crotch.

“Why?”

“Because I already said I'm not ready! My vagina is scared. Respect the vagina.”

“So what are we talking? Backdoor action?”

“Jesus Christ, Zach. You think I'm going to start letting you in there just because I won't let you in anywhere else?”

“Then what?” he asks, more confused than dickish. I feel a tinge of guilt, but I remind myself that I'm the one who carried, birthed, and feeds our baby, and I need to have some say in what happens to my body and when for a change.

“Let's start with kissing. We can work our way up from there.”